


A Beast Built for War

by Darling_Jack



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Crack, Drabble, Fluff, Horses, I Don't Even Know, Messin' with Dutch, Young Arthur Morgan, yeah there are horses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-19 09:27:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29624166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darling_Jack/pseuds/Darling_Jack
Summary: Dutch's horse dies; Arthur helps him pick a new one. It does not go well.
Comments: 23
Kudos: 37





	A Beast Built for War

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Emmithar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emmithar/gifts).



King was dead. It was a shame, really, but not anything Dutch wasn’t used to— they led a dangerous life, and he’d long since come to the conclusion that it was better a horse than a person. Still he’d miss the rascal.

...Though not quite so much as Arthur would.

It’d been more than he’d seen of the boy since he joined them a few months back; Arthur had been absolutely distraught to hear of King’s fate, crying into Dutch’s shirt and apologizing incessantly. None of them had expected it of the kid— he kept to himself, more like a barn cat than a child, and to see him so thoroughly upset over a horse that wasn’t even his? Well, it damn near broke Dutch’s heart.

After the funeral that Arthur insisted they held, complete with eulogies and a poorly-constructed cross Arthur made from a pair of sticks and some grass, Dutch sat with the boy and held him as he rambled on and on about how much he loved King, how soft his fur was, now tickle his nose— and damn it, Dutch was a bad man, but he wasn’t a cruel one.

“Tell you what,” He said gently, wrapping Arthur in his arms, “How’s about tomorrow you and I head into town, you can help me pick a new horse.”

“You’re… Gonna replace King?” Arthur asked with those big, doleful eyes, and Dutch felt an immediate pang of guilt.

“No— no! Not at all. King… King was one of a kind. But see, Matilda and Butterbean—“ Hosea and Arthur’s horses respectively, “They might get real lonesome with just the pair of them. I thought it might help them to have someone to dote on, and a new friend is just what they need.”

Realistically, Dutch couldn’t stand the idea of sharing a saddle with either of them— Matilda was old and graying already, and Butterbean, well, god help him if he ever found himself willingly riding a horse named fucking Butterbean. Insult to injury, Arthur kept the poor gelding’s mane carefully braided. Not going to happen. He needed a horse, and he needed one quick.

But a horse was a horse, ultimately, and whether he picked it or Arthur did didn’t much matter to him.

Bright the next morning they picked their way into town, opting to walk. It wasn’t all that far anyways. The Watson Stables were on the very edge, large and proud; Dutch had gotten a glimpse of their stock before, all fine, well-bred horses at surprisingly reasonable rates. He assumed it was due to the remote nature of the town.

Arthur had both hands gripped into Dutch’s shirt as they walked in. Stables like this were loud and busy, something Arthur had never done well with. He damn near melted the second he saw the horses, however, tucked away in their stalls, waiting.

They marveled for a moment.

“Look here, Arthur,” Dutch drew his attention towards a handsome dappled stallion, “This is a foxtrotter— a damn fine horse, steady as anything and twice as loyal. He’s pretty, ain’t he?”

Arthur stared at the beast.

“What’s that one?” he asked, voice quiet, pointing at a lanky, lean horse with a blood red coat.

“Good eye,” Dutch beamed, earnestly proud of the boy’s impeccable taste. Just a few months and clearly he was already rubbing off on the kid, “You’ve got a thoroughbred there. Fast bastards, all muscle.”

“And that one?”

Dutch followed his line of sight to a beautiful beast; black as pitch, gleaming even in the low light that filtered in through the barn slats. He was a tall, proud thing, antsy and clearly looking for a fight.

A Turkoman. He told Arthur as much.

“Now these,” he breathed, in absolute awe, “These are fine mounts. Warhorses— unshakable, fast, imposing—“

“What’s that one?” Arthur asked again, damn near vibrating from the excitement twisted up in his little frame.

Dutch was startled; how could he not be absolutely hypnotized by this magnificent horse? He glanced in the direction Arthur pointed, “Oh uh… A walker. Smooth gaits, they’re funny. Now these Turkomans, these are an ancient breed, bred hundreds and hundreds of years ago and prized—“

“What’s this one?” Arthur asked, staring at a horse a few stalls down, sticking his hand over the gate in the hopes that he might touch what looked to be a feather-soft mane. Dutch drew him back, steering him by his shoulders.

“A saddler. Now listen, ‘cause here’s where this gets real interesting, the _turks_ —“

“Dutch— What’s this one?” he grabbed Dutch’s hand dragging the man towards a small chestnut mare.

“It’s a morgan,” Dutch groaned, “So turks, they’re true powerhouses—“

Dutch prattled on, not realizing the way Arthur’s eyes had widened into saucers as he stared at the chestnut horse; how his breath stuck in his chest. The stablehand came over, striking up a conversation with Dutch, the pair talking about turks and saddles and sales, when Arthur interrupted.

“This one,” he said, pointing at the morgan, “Dutch— Dutch this one.”

Dutch blinked.

“You sure, kid? I’m… not sure it... suits me.”

“I’m sure,” Arthur confirmed, damn near vibrating with excitement, the biggest grin Dutch had ever seen smeared over his face, “Get this one.”

“Okay,” Dutch sighed, resting his face in his hand. Goddamned kid. “We’ll take the morgan.”

“A fine choice,” the stablehand assured them, even though they both knew it wasn’t.

They walked the morgan back to camp, not yet trusting it to be ridden, and certainly not by the both of them. Hosea greeted them upon their return, looked a little surprised at the mare they had in tow.

“That’s quite a horse,” Hosea said, a grin dashed across his face, “A… morgan?”

“What can I say, the kid fell in love…” Dutch faked a smile of his own, “I don’t know what it was, but you should’ve seen the way little Arthur here lit up.”

“You got a name picked out yet?” Hosea asked, weaving a wide circle around the mare as if examining her.

“Not yet—“

“ _Arthur Morgan,_ ” Arthur chirped, a wide, sideways smile spread across his face, "It's Arthur Morgan!"

Dutch paused. There is no way he heard that right. The gears in his brain ground and smoked, trying to figure out what the hell Arthur had just said.

But Hosea burst into a fit of laughter, enough to leave him doubled over and half-collapsed in the grass. He howled, he rolled, his sides cramped. Arthur’s smile only widened; the boy was clearly proud of himself.

“You—“

“What?” he asked, batting doe eyes at Dutch, “You don’t like it?”

“Oh you little _shit_ — you- you can’t name a horse that!”

Hosea collected himself enough to pat Arthur on the back, wiping the tears from his cheeks, “You did good son, that’s a _fine_ name! Come here, Arthur Morgan!”

The mare nickered softly, burying her velvet nose into Hosea’s hand. He again collapsed into a fit of cackling laughter.

"Look Dutch, it knows its name already!"

“It’s a _mare!_ ” Dutch protested, as if that might change their mind, but Arthur already had taken the reins from him.

“Come on, Arthur Morgan! I’ll show you around!”

It only got worse from there. They insisted on calling the damn thing by her full name every time— Arthur Morgan. Dutch tried to get something— _anything_ — else to stick, but Hosea and Arthur stubbornly stuck with Arthur Morgan. He whined every time Hosea would ask, _“You gonna take Arthur and Arthur Morgan out today?”_ or Arthur would beg, _“Dutch, can you and me and Butterbean and Arthur Morgan go down to the creek?”_

Arthur spent as much time as possible with the mare. “Where’s Arthur?” Dutch would ask when the boy was gone a bit too long, and inevitably the answer would be “Arthur Morgan? Why, with Arthur Morgan!”

Because even as weeks drew by, Hosea still found this whole damn thing _hilarious._

Eventually, fed up with the jokes, one day Dutch quite literally threw up his hands and shouted, “Fine, you want to name the damn thing after yourself? _You_ keep her!”

It ended up being a decent trade, honestly. Butterbean wasn’t all that bad of a horse, a far cry steadier and less easily spooked than King had ever been. She was even tempered as well and tolerant as anything.

And admittedly, eventually he saw the humor in Arthur Morgan’s morgan Arthur Morgan. 

**Author's Note:**

> .... Turns out I can write fics WITHOUT torturing anyone. It just... turns out like this. Who coulda guessed? :D


End file.
